


It's not The Concealment that bothers me, it's the insult to My Intelligence that I find offensive.

by reveriewit



Series: Stark Moments [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Civil War (Marvel), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 10:22:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19424023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveriewit/pseuds/reveriewit
Summary: When the news breaks of the explosion in Vienna during the ratification of the Sokovian Accords, Tony Stark uses the circulating picture of Barnes for his own brand of investigation.





	It's not The Concealment that bothers me, it's the insult to My Intelligence that I find offensive.

Algorithms rampantly compile, the hum of an entire data centre at Sector 11 a couple of miles away at Manhattan’s branch of Stark Industries feverishly reverberating against sound dampening foam - the sound scarcely lingers in the background to employees who tread through distant corridors, the majority of whom don’t have the clearance to breech that particular _**haven**_ of information storage. The space is ambient yet sombre, lights cast low with the soft glow of the flashing bulbs embedded within a plethora of server racks which line the room in immaculately neat rows. Petabytes of data and software housed within those units on a multitude of virtual servers, host hardware diligently functioning in their prolonged up-time as CPUs fire on all cylinders, every ounce of resources available diverted to one task alone.

Tanned fingers are brought up to the black tie which is still wrapped around the futurist’s neck like a tightening noose, tugging at it to rid him of the coiled tension that threatens to suffocate him. The expansive chamber’s air conditioning system constantly pipes through cool streams to hinder the equipment from overheating, but it’s a wonderful **_reprieve_** against heated skin, the man dragging his fatigued self along to seat himself at a terminal in the middle of this technological sanctuary. He displays the photo which is circulating all over the country, a quick glance cast towards an update regarding percentages of processes completed.

Facial recognition technology had come a **_long_** way over the last few decades, Euclidean and projective geometry playing key roles in comprehensively breaking down and reconstructing facets of the human face - a feat which improved as milestones in advancements in the field **_rapidly_** progress, the focus shifting from 2D composition to 3D for a heightened degree of accuracy. The engineer could manually override the process and begin his own **_unique_** brand of investigation, but it’s a rare moment in which he allows himself to have a few minutes of scarce downtime, his breath regulating to a slowed rhythm as he maintains his hardened gaze over the image, the surrounding drone in the atmosphere bringing some comfort even if in terms of pride in his personal hallmarks of innovation.

Notifications begin to unravel as millions of lines of code terminate at finalised methods, bypassing loops and procedures to bring with them statistics more **_devastating_** than the last. **_2,359,217_** potential partial matches are found in Vienna alone from numerous outlets of identification **(** _recent generations really shouldn’t be so keen to hand out personal information online_ **),** the jaw dropping number aggressively jumping when considering neighbouring cities and countries. Skin texture analysis teeters on being complete, its outcome bringing the former number down to 1,801,764. And yet Stark knows that the effort is inherently **_inconclusive,_** the result far outweighing the required manpower to execute a cohesive search and inquiry of those unsuspecting civilians.

Frustration cloys at the futurist’s currently present stream of consciousness, his line of vision momentarily dipping downwards in thought and clocking onto a crimson stain having seeped into the white fabric of his shirt **(** _was he bleeding?_ **).** Internal biological processes weren’t transmitting any signals of injury or penetration to his flesh, a quirk of his chin and a further look indicating that remnants of splashed wine are to blame **(** _again, not his_ **).** There’s a minor heave as the engineer leans back within the chair in resignation, considering someone whom he had abruptly bumped into during the **_chaotic_** aftermath when the news broke of the explosion. A finger idly scratches at the blotch with little success, lips pursing in displeasure **(** _he had always liked the crispness of this particular shirt..._ **).**

The results are unsatisfactory but Stark’s musings staunchly remain with the fragments of the image nonetheless, an overbearing need to resolve this infringing puzzle, inspecting each and every pixel to delve into the extensive list of contacts he personally had - the inventor has his unwarranted suspicions, but it’s a feeling clawing in his gut at best, the billionaire muttering to himself amidst a scowl.

_“I know you, you rat bastard...”_


End file.
